


dragon drabbles

by chanterie



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, Families of Choice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-03-22 09:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3724111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanterie/pseuds/chanterie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>various dragon age drabbles and ficlets that are too short to really stand on their own. check the index page for easy browsing!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. take it off - alistair/female cousland, awakenings gang

**Author's Note:**

> from a first sentence drabble meme on tumblr.

“You heard me. Take it off,” Alistair growled.

Laoise bit her lower lip as she watched the scene unfold. What had started as a simple visit to Vigil’s Keep had quickly turned into a night of drunken shenanigans. It was something the monarchs had desperately needed. The stress of managing the fledgling wardens of Ferelden, their country, and the political fall out of the burning of Amaranthine had been weighing heavily on them. A night to just be  _wardens_  instead of the king and queen was just what the healer ordered.

“Why?” Oghren laughed, his ale sloshing in his tankard. He stood on the table, Alistair’s crown perched on his shock of red hair. Beside him, Sigrun giggled. Whether it was at Oghren or the look on Alistair’s face was debatable. “You scared I’m gonna break it?”

Alistair snorted. “I doubt even you could break that heavy thing.”

“Dearest,” Laoise reached out to rest a hand on Alistair’s elbow. “Just let him have his fun. He’ll pass out soon enough and you can steal it back. Or I can steal it for you.”

Leaning heavily against Laoise’s shoulder, Anders giggled. “The king can’t even manage his own crown. How like a templar.”

Alistair scowled and Laoise chuckled, running her fingers through the mage’s hair. “You don’t have much room to talk,” she said, voice dry as the desert. “You keep leaving your staff in all kinds of strange places.”

He shifted so he could more easily squint up at his commander. “Was that a double en– double– sex joke? Commander, I’m appalled.”

“You’re completely pissed is what you are,” Alistair laughed, shoving at Anders’ shoulder. “Now stop hogging my wife. Go lean on someone else if you need a cuddle.”

Anders wrinkled his nose, but moved off of Laoise’s shoulder to slump on the table. “Oghren smells, Justice smells  _worse_  if you can believe it, Sigrun kicks in her sleep, and I don’t even want to know what Nathaniel and Velanna would do to me if I sneaked into either of their beds.”

“Kill you, most likely.” Laoise stood and stretched before leaning down and pressing a kiss to Anders’ forehead. “Go curl up in your own bed before too long, little idiot. You’ll be all sorts of stiff if you sleep here.”

She laced her fingers through Alistair’s and tugged him along with her as she moved around the room. As they passed Oghren, still drunkenly dancing on the table with Sigrun relentlessly mocking him, she reached out and deftly plucked her husband’s crown from his head. She held it as far away from her body as possibly as she lead the way through the halls of Vigil’s Keep to her quarters. The crown was placed on the desk in her rooms, and the door was locked behind them. 

Alistair curled his arms around her waist, pressing his face to the join between her neck and shoulder.

“Enjoying having another group of misfits, are we?” he asked, amusement coloring his voice.

Laoise leaned back into his embrace, smiling. “I am. Though I miss being on the road with you.” She grasped one of his hands in hers, and kissed his knuckles. “I miss spending our nights together under the stars.”

“ _Wellll_ … I can’t give you stars. Not unless you want all of the Keep to see us,” Alistair said, stepping back. His fingers plucked at the ties of her dress, loosening them. “But I can give you a night with me before I leave tomorrow.”

She turned around, and flushed at the look on his face. His eyes gleamed gold in the firelight, and that smirk… every time it graced his face, it sent heat rushing through her. 

He brought his hands up to her shoulders, easing the heavy velvet off them. “Take it off?”

A shiver raced down Laoise’s spine at the quiet huskiness of his voice. She shrugged, easing the dress off her. Outside her rooms, laughter echoed in the halls, mingling with the sounds of music. And for the first time in a very long time, Laoise felt perfectly at home.


	2. hope for home -- carver, awakenings gang

Once he’s recovered enough and been briefed on what it’s really like, being a Grey Warden, Stroud sends him to Vigil’s Keep. 

“You’re Fereldan,” he says, “And they are still rebuilding their numbers after Ostagar. Warden-Constable Howe will be happy to have you among their ranks.”

Carver, who hasn’t been paying much attention to news of the Wardens of Ferelden, is a little confused as to why Stroud talks as if the Warden-Constable is in charge and not the Warden-Commander. Maybe, he thinks, it has something to do with the news that the city of Amaranthine was burned after darkspawn overtook it, on orders of the Warden-Commander. 

He doesn’t think to ask about it when Howe meets him at the docks. The question is all but forgotten, really, until he walks into Vigil’s Keep and is greeted by a mabari rushing towards him. Queen Laoise, decked out in warden armor, follows after, laughing.

“Kibbles! Don’t harrass the new recruit!” she yells, and the dog whines, ears pinned back against his head. It reminds him so much of Hawke’s mabari, Dog, that Carver can’t help but smile.

He reaches out and scratches Kibbles–the queen’s mabari is named  _Kibbles_?– behind the ears. “It’s alright, your majesty. I don’t mind.”

The queen grins, sharp and full of teeth, before clapping him on the shoulder. “Good man. And it’s just Commander or Laoise here, Hawke. When I’m here, I’m a Warden first and foremost, not a queen. Same goes for my idiot husband, who you’ll probably meet soon.”

Howe snorts and hooks his thumbs in his belt. “Is Alistair eating all the cheese in the larder  _again_?”

“Think one day he’ll love me like that?” she asks. With a snort and a small shake of her head, she turns towards the keep, gesturing for Howe and Carver to follow her. “I don’t suppose you saw Anders when you were in the Marches, Nathaniel? Stroud said he was there.”

Carver blinks. “You know Anders?” He pauses, thinking. “You’re not the person who made him give up his cat, are you? He’s still upset about that.”

Howe rolls his eyes. “No, she’s the one who got him the bloody cat. The Orlesian Warden who was to be commander while Laoise was in Denerim did that.”

“Once we found out,” Laoise says, eyes narrowed and lip curled in a sneer. “We sent him back to Orlais right quick. He was an ass. And Ser Pounce-a-Lot has more balls than he did.”

A startled laugh pulls itself out of Carver. “Are you sure you’re a queen?”

Laoise smirks at him over her shoulder, and Howe chuckles low in his throat. “She’s only polite and proper when she absolutely has to be,” he says. “She’d much rather be in your face, which surprisingly works in Ferelden. Sometimes.“

"You’ve been far from home for too long, pup,” she says, hitting his shoulder with her own. Or rather, his arm with her shoulder. She’s rather short. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you reacclimated soon enough.”

The words, combined with the glint in her eyes, should probably scare him. Instead, it just makes Carver smile, warmth spreading through him. For the first time since they fled Lothering, he thinks that maybe home’s something that isn’t going to elude him forever. He misses his sisters and his mother in a way he can’t describe–losing Bethany was like so much more than losing a limb–but this… this might not be the just-slightly-better-than-death sentence he thought it would be.


	3. "that sounds painful", cullen/f!mage!trevelyan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from a one sentence prompt meme on tumblr, starring cullen and catherine trevelyan

Calloused fingertips ghost over the skin of Catherine’s shoulder, sending shivers down her spine. Small touches from Cullen always make her bite her lip around a smile. There’s something special about knowing that, even with all the power held within his strong body, he enjoys being so gentle with her.

She shifts, resting her cheek on his shoulder and grinning up at him. “Have you been awake long?”

Cullen shakes his head. “A few minutes,” he answers, voice rough with sleep. Leaning down, he presses a kiss to the bridge of her nose. “I’ve been wondering… how did this happen? You’ve said you weren’t the adventerous type back when you were in the Circle.” He trails a finger over the once-broken bone.

“Um.” Catherine flushes and ducks her head. “I walked into a stone doorframe when I was sixteen.”

The fingers on her shoulder abruptly stop tracing patterns between her freckles. “That… sounds painful.” Catherine doesn’t need to look up to know that Cullen is trying not to smile. “Why exactly did you walk face first into a doorframe?”

“I was trying to make my way from the library to the dining hall while reading a treatise on the interactions between mana and enchanted runes,” she mumbles into Cullen’s chest. “I wasn’t very good at navigating with my nose in a book. So to speak.”

Catherine ignores the way the muscles beneath her cheek tense and twitch with suppressed laughter and barrels on. “The worst part was getting blood all over the parchment. I thought the Tranquil in charge of the library was going to suddenly become un-Tranquil. She seemed very perturbed that I’d ruined her newest acquisition.”

He gives in to the laughter then. “Of course you were more worried about the book than your nose. Of course.”

“Have I said that I’m sorry for ruining your dramatic and very romantic gesture with the desk?”

Cullen presses a kiss to the top of her head. “You have, and it’s alright. I know you’ll never love me as much as you love books.”

With an indignant gasp, Catherine sits up. Her glare lasts all of three heartbeats before Cullen’s lopsided smile makes her laugh and lean down to kiss his scar. “If you think that,” she murmurs against his mouth, “I clearly need to keep you in bed this morning to show you just how wrong you are.”

His hands pulled her closer to him. “I,” he says, gently nipping at her bottom lip, “Have no objections to that plan at all.”


	4. "don't you ever get lonely?", cullen & f!amell

They’ve been watching each other for three weeks now. Or maybe she’s just been the one watching him. It’s hard to tell whether the templar–Cullen, she thinks his name is, Ser Cullen–is just doing his duty or if he’s actually watching her. But if Hadley were the type to bet, she’d put her money on him watching her just as much as she watches him.

It’s a strange sort of comfortable silence they’ve cultivated here in the hallway. At this time of day, it’s usually as quiet as the tower ever gets and she can curl up in her chair without being disturbed by the other apprentices or older mages who want to use the table. Resting her cheek on her palm, Hadley studies the chess board in front of her.

“Don’t you ever get lonely? Playing all by yourself?”

She starts, knocking over a knight and a rook. Ser Cullen flushes and his expression turns from the impassive mask they must teach at the Chantry to looking like someone’s clipped him in the face with a frying pan.

“I–I just mean surely you’ve, uh, friends you can play with?” He shifts from foot to foot, eyes darting to the side then up to the ceiling. “L-like that one apprentice with the, ah. The nose.”

Hadley bites her lips around a smile. “Jowan doesn’t much like chess,” she says quietly, replacing the pieces. “And I don’t–I don’t think the other apprentices like me much.”

She’s Irving’s pet pupil, after all, and they can’t seem to wrap their heads around her being confident in her abilities but utter pants when it comes to talking to people.  _It makes you seem snobbish even though you’re not_ , Jowan told her once.

Tilting her head down, Hadley lets her hair fall in front of her face. She steals a glance at Cullen between the red strands and watches as he rubs the back of his neck, very purposefully not looking at her. Looks like she messed that interaction up too. With a near silent sigh, she moves a white pawn forward two spaces. What opening move to counter with this time? Oh, if only she hadn’t forgotten that book in the dormitories…

“Pawn to C5.”

Hadley blinks, looks over at Ser Cullen. His cheeks are still tinged pink and he seems to be trying to hunch his shoulders while in plate, but he’s giving her a small smile. She smiles back at him, and moves the piece where he wants it.


	5. "you were saturated sunlight", alistair & zevran

Sweat dripped down his back. And his forehead. And his, well. Everywhere, really. One of the downsides of sparring in the middle of the day during the worst part of summer. But, oh, was it worth it to be able to feel that pleasant burn in his muscles, and to laugh as he and Carver took turns knocking each other out into the dirt.

Applause greeted him as he slung his practice shield over his shoulder and turned toward the armory. Alistair couldn’t help the grin when he saw who was leaning against the fence of the practice arena. Of course he’d be watching.  _Of course_.

“Ah, I have missed watching you work, my friend,” Zevran said as Alistair neared him.

The Warden cocked his head to the side. “Oh, really?”

Zevran leaned against a fence post and let the smile slowly curl the corners of his lips. “Oh, yes. Especially when you spar with your protegee in the templar arts. He is like the moon, you see, all pale skin and a shock of dark hair. But you–” he paused to give Alistair an appreciative once-over. “You are saturated sunlight.”

Alistair sputtered around a laugh. “Saturated sunlight? You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I am not. It is a wonderful contrast. I don’t suppose the two of you will be sparring again while I’m visiting the Keep?” Zevran asked.

“We’ll see, Zev.” Alistair shook his head fondly. “We’ll see.”


	6. "names", cullen/f!mage!inquisitor, leliana; TRESPASSER SPOILERS

Leliana laughs at him when he asks her to dog-sit that night. “Of course I will! You and Catherine deserve a night together without interruption.”

His wife–he still can’t wrap his head around the joy those words bring–presses herself even closer to his side. “Thank you, Leliana,” she says.

The Nightingale kneels on the ground and scratches the mabari behind the ears. “It’s no problem at all, Inquisitor. I’m sure… what’s his name again?”

Cullen blinks. “I, ah, haven’t actually named him yet.”

“For shame, Commander.” Leliana hits just the right spot to make the dog’s entire back half waggle in delight and her voice takes on that particular tone people only use when talking to animals and infants. “Such a handsome boy deserves a name, don’t you? Yes, you do!”

Cullen has to stifle a snort of amusement. “Sometimes I forget you’re Fereldan.”

Grinning widely, Leliana looks back at him. “I am more than willing to dance the remigold with you or sing Andraste’s Mabari any time you need a reminder.”

At his side, Catherine straightens suddenly with a small gasp. Cullen looks down at her. The sharp glint of mischief in her eye has him exchanging a confused and slightly wary look with Leliana before glancing down at her again.

“Do you think,” she starts slowly, “That the Chantry would declare me a heretic again if we named the dog Maferath?”

His disgusted noise and grumble of, “We are  _not_  naming the dog Maferath,  _honestly_ , Catherine,” is almost drowned out by Leliana’s laughter.

“What about Dane?”

Cullen scowls. “No.”

“Ferdinand?”

He pauses. The name itself isn’t too bad. But after a moment, the reference clicks and he frowns even more. “I’m not naming him after Brother Genitivi either.”

“Aldenon?”

“No.”

“Thalsian?”

He sighs. “No, we are not naming the dog after the first Archon of Tevinter.”

Catherine pauses, brow crinkling in a thoughtful frown. “Cathaire?” she finally offers.

That… makes him pause. Naming the Commander of the Inquisition’s mabari after the commander of Andraste’s armies would likely ruffle a few feathers. But– “That’s… not a terrible name.”

From his position sprawled across Leliana’s lap, the dog barks happily. “Cathaire it is, then,” Cullen says.

“It is a good name,” Leliana agrees. “But this does mean that every time you say ‘Cath-’ now, you’ll get both your wife and your mabari answering.”


	7. "flashing the other", cullen/f!mage!inquisitor

Loathe as he was to admit it, there were a few things Cullen enjoyed about staying at some noble’s estate before the empress’ ball. Namely, the large copper tub attached to his room. Hot baths were a rare indulgence, and the heat did wonderful things for his headache and sore muscles.

It was nice to relax a little for once. He didn’t have to worry about scouts passing through his office while he tried to unwind. They couldn’t keep their observations on paper, so there wasn’t any way he’d be interrupted by someone dropping off a report. He could finish toweling off and flop onto the overly large bed while…

Being interrupted by a squeak. From a very familiar voice.

He paused, towel still covering his head– _just_  his head–and prayed that noise was just his imagination.

“Oh, Maker.” No, that was definitely Catherine’s voice. And he has one incredible flush moving from his ears, down his neck to spread across his chest. “I’m so sorry, Cullen!”

Slowly, Cullen pulled the towel off his head and slung it around his hips. Catherine was perched standing just inside the doorway, book clutched to her chest and one hand clapped over her eyes.

“It–ah, it’s alright?” He rubbed the back of his neck with the hand that wasn’t holding the towel to his hips. “What was it you needed?”

Catherine peeked through her fingers before slowly peeling her hand away from her very red face. “I found a copy of that book we were talking about a week ago. The one you never had a chance to read when you were in Ferelden? I thought… you might want to take a look at it while we’re here.” She inched forward, carefully not looking at him, and placed the book on a table. “I’ll just leave now. Have a nice evening, Commander!”

Before he could reply, she turned tail and left, the door slamming shut behind her. Cullen looked from the door to the book, a small smile crossing his face. That… could have gone much worse. And unless he was very much mistaken, she’d made sure to get a good look at him before turning away. 


	8. "stupid plans", alistair/f!cousland

“This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had.”

Alistair leaned back against the headboard and placed his hands over his heart. “Oh, that hurts. That hurts right here.”

He watched as his wife winced and curled a little tighter around one of her many pillows. “That’s not what I meant and you know it,” she muttered. 

And he did. He knew it the same way he knew that, no matter how he laid it out, Laoise would never fully approve of this idea. It was too risky, there wasn’t a solid enough lead to justify it, she’d be left behind this time and not the other way ‘round… The list went on, really.

“Love–” he paused, sighed, and ran his fingers through her hair. There was nothing he could say to make this easier for her. She would worry. She had lost too much over the years, and losing him would be her undoing, the same way losing her for good would be his.

Laoise caught his hand in hers and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “You’re not asking my permission, are you?”

“No,” he said, “I’m not.”

“You’ve already asked Isabela if she’ll ferry you, haven’t you?”

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I have. She’s bringing along a friend of hers that’s handy with a crossbow.”

Laoise snorted. “That’s very reassuring, Alistair.” She paused, then, unable to look him in the eye. Her fingers held on tightly to his. “When do you leave?”

“In a fortnight.”

He waited for a reaction, watching her face carefully. There was none save for a small frown. Alistair reached out and pulled his wife into his arms, holding her tightly to his chest.

“I’ll bring you back a souvenir,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. The choked laugh he got in response told him that, even though she likely wasn’t happy with him at the moment, things were going to be alright.


	9. "a promise", alistair/f!cousland, carver, nathaniel

**i.) nathaniel to laoise.**

As she watches, Nathaniel sighs heavily and leans against the ramparts. “I never wanted to be in charge of this place, you know. Not even when it belonged to my family.”

Laoise smiles, tipping her head back so she can see the stars. “I know,” she says. “You bitch every time I visit.”

“It’s different now. I was still just your constable before.” His hands clench around stone until his knuckles turn white. It’s the only outward sign he gives of how concerned he is. 

“I know,” Laoise says, quieter this time. “But I need you to promise me something.”

That, it seems, is the last straw. Nathaniel straightens suddenly, eyes glinting with anger. “No. I’m not promising you anything, Theirin. Not when you’re making goodbyes like this, acting like you’re about to go off to your Calling. It isn’t right. It–” He pauses. “Why are you smiling like that?”

There’s no helping the laugh that bubbles up out of Laoise’s chest. “I was going to make you promise to keep things in one piece while I’m away and to not let Mistress Woolsey annoy you too much. Like usual.”

Nathaniel stands there for a moment, looking for all the world like someone’s just struck him in the face with a frying pan. “You–” His mouth opens and closes a few times as he searches for words. “You Orlesian-loving cur! You’ve been doing this on purpose!!”

“Got rid of all the tangles in here, didn’t it?” she asked, pressing her palm to his sternum. “More anger than worry, now.”

The way he scowls down at her tells Laoise that she’s right. Nathaniel huffs before wrapping his arms around her, squeezing too tight for comfort just so she squirms. “I will promise you to keep everything in order here,” he says, “If you promise me you’ll come back whole.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal…  _Commander_.”

 

**ii.) carver to alistair.**

They’re both gasping for breath, sweat pouring down their backs as they square off in the practice ring of Vigil’s Keep. This is the last time they’ll get a chance to do this for the Maker knows how long, so Carver and Alistair have both let the match go on longer than they probably should have. A tremor in Alistair’s shield arm is what finally makes him call it.

“I can’t believe you smote–smited?–me with that last hit,” he says, letting the shield fall from his arm into the dirt. “Low blow, Carver.”

Carver smirks as he sheathes his two-hander. “Consider it revenge for the time you did it to me during training.”

Alistair pauses. Had he done that? Frowning, he wracks his memory until he can remember the day. “That was almost six years ago! And I was holding back.”

“So was I.” Carver peels off his sweat-soaked shirt and drapes it over the fence surrounding the ring. “You should take it as a compliment. You’re the one who taught it to me.”

With a laugh, Alistair joins him, leaning against a post. “There is that.” He falls silent, looking across the courtyard to where his wife and Nathaniel stand on the ramparts overlooking the inside of the Keep. “You’ll look after her, won’t you?”

Carver glances over at him. “I’d’ve done it even if you didn’t ask.”

“Good.” Alistair smiles, though it’s a small, pained thing, and claps his fellow Warden on the shoulder. “I’ll rest easier knowing that.”

 

**iii.) laoise to alistair.**

He’s soaking in the tub as they talk of simple things–how well Nathaniel is doing with the new recruits, how Oghren’s little girl has grown so big, Sigrid’s blooming romance… It’s not until Laoise sets her pack by the door that Alistair falls quiet and lets the pretense drop.

“You will come back to me,” he says, and he can’t bear to make it a question.

Laoise crosses the room to kneel beside the copper tub and cups his damp cheek in her palm. “I will come back to you,” she promises. “At our wedding I pledged my living and my dying to your care, my love, and I hold to that. I’ll fight my way back from the Maker’s side if I have to.”

The words are reassuring and worrying in equal measure, strange as that is. Reassuring because his wife has never lost her spark and she is as fierce a warrior as he knows. Worrying because there’s a real chance that this journey into the unknown may kill her if Weisshaupt doesn’t do something to stop it first.

With a quiet sigh, Alistair leans his forehead against hers, letting his eyes fall closed. “I love you,” he whispers, barely louder than a breath. “I will always love you, even if you never find a cure.”

“I know,” Laoise murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I love you too. More than I know how to say. And I promise, that is not the last time you’ll hear that from me.”

“And not just because you’re sure to say it before you leave tomorrow?”

Laoise laughed quietly, her thumb skimming along his cheekbone. “And not just because I’m sure to say it tomorrow. And later tonight. And maybe in the small hours of the morning, if you think you can do without much sleep tonight.”

It was a distraction,and they both knew it, but it was a welcome one. “That sounds,” Alistair said, pausing to kiss her briefly, “Like a wonderful plan, my dear.”


	10. "dustmotes", josephine, rylen

Skyhold is quiet. It is strange and settles on Josephine’s shoulders like a particularly unsettling and misshapen blanket. There are no nobles to entertain and there will be no more until the bulk of the army has returned. It is early (or late) enough that the ravens still sleep. There is no one in the library. Solas’ fire has long since guttered out.

As she steps out onto the battlements, all Josephine can hear is the click of her heels on the stone and the quiet whistle of the wind over the mountaintops. There are fires in the courtyard below, but it’s the light in Cullen’s office that catches her eye.

The door is nearly silent when she opens it, and Knight-Captain Rylen doesn’t look up from the papers he’s reading at the Commander’s desk. He’s standing on one foot, Josephine notices, likely still favoring the leg that was ripped into by a particularly nasty hurlock out in the Approach. She wonders if he chafes at being here while his men are in the Arbor Wilds.

“If you like,” she says quietly as she shuts the door. “I can get you a chair.”

He smiles at her, the Starkhaven smile pulling the expression askew. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account, Ambassador.”

She tilts her head in acquiescence and steps forward. Her feet take her to the bookshelf when she told herself she would step through the room and out onto the battlements again. Rylen clearly has work to do and they are not close. Bothering him would serve no purpose.

But the light in the office is warm and it settles some of the twisting in Josephine’s gut. It’s easier, she realizes as she swipes a finger across a dusty shelf, to tut over the state of Cullen’s tower than it is to think about where he is. Where they all are.

A warm hand falls on her shoulder, squeezes slightly. “They’ll be alright, Lady Montilyet,” Rylen says.

Josephine watches the dust dance in the light of the candles and nods. And if they are not… Her shoulders square. If they are not, she and Rylen and Charter and Harding will carry the Inquisition forward. She reaches up and squeezes Rylen’s hand in return.

“Thank you, Knight-Captain.”

She turns then, and walks toward the door, stepping out into the brisk mountain air again. The sun is rising, painting the sky in pinks and violets that make her heart ache in a good way. She licks her lips and strides forward into the morning light.


	11. "candles", anora, fergus cousland

In her mind, Fergus Cousland is cheerful, friendly, and a little foolish. When they were younger and tagging along with their fathers every Landsmeet, that’s how Anora saw him. It didn’t change much as he got older. The man she finds in the chantry lighting candles is anything but.

It’s been two years since Ostagar. Since the attack on Castle Cousland. The loss of Cailan still aches beneath her breast and perhaps that’s why she sits in the pew next to him. 

“I am sorry I never got to meet Oriana,” she says, because that is what you’re supposed to say. 

Fergus cracks his lopsided smile, though it’s tinged with grief and bitterness. “You wouldn’t have liked her,” he says, “Too inflexible in all the wrong ways for your tastes.” He pauses, then covers her hand with his own. “I am sorry about Cailan.”

She swallows hard. Their marriage was not always a happy one, but she had loved Cailan. Truly. Missing him is not like missing a part of herself, but it has left a hole in her life. Anora squeezes his hand in return and says, “Thank you, Fergus,” because his words are not the platitudes she has heard from the entirety of the country. He knows how she must feel.

They sit in silence for a long moment before he stands, pulling her up with him. “There’s not much they had in common, but I do believe my wife and your husband wouldn’t have wanted us to mope too much.” He smiles at her, and a warmth she hasn’t felt in a very long time spreads through her. “May I escort you to dinner? I promise to give you embarrassing stories about my little sister’s childhood in return.”

Anora laughs. “I would enjoy that.” It is not a lie.


	12. "last kiss before i go off and do something dangerous", cullen/f!mage!inquisitor

There are Inquisition soldiers everywhere. At least, that’s what it feels like as Cullen strides through the halls of the Winter Palace. It’s good–that’s what he wanted it to feel like when he assigned them their posts–but it doesn’t do anything to help the twisting anxiety in his gut.

He nods to Elliot and Weaver as he walks outside, down the steps, and towards the room where the eluvian is held. He can hear Cassandra and Dorian’s hushed voices and the crackling of the Anchor. Carefully, quietly, he closes the door to the storage room behind him. Cole peers at him from under the brim of his hat and smiles softly.

“She needs to hear it,” he says. “And you need to say it. I’ll pull them away for you.” He doesn’t hear whatever it is Cole says to them, but he catches Dorian’s sympathetic look over Catherine’s shoulder.

She’s cradling her left hand to her chest as it sparks–slower and less powerfully than before, but still painful if her carefully blank expression is anything to go by. With a soft sigh, Cullen cups her cheeks in his palms. He took his gloves off for this. It may be his last chance to touch her, hold her, and he wants to be able to feel her skin against his.

“No matter what happens,” he whispers, voice hoarse, as he rests his forehead against hers, “Know that this was– _is_  worth fighting for. And I will never regret a moment of it.”

Catherine closes her eyes and makes a noise in the back of her throat, a wounded sort of whimper. She leans into him, and he shushes her quietly. “Cullen, I–” she stops. Shakes her head.

“It’s alright. I know.”

His nose brushes against hers as he pulls back just enough to kiss her. He never wants to forget this–the way her fingers curl in the fabric of his coat, the softness of her lips under his, the feeling of loose curls at the nape of her neck brushing his fingers. The Anchor sparks against his side, and Cullen pulls back. Kisses her bottom lip once more, soft and reverent.

Catherine takes a step away from him, and he can see the tears in her eyes as she pulls her hood up. “I have to go,” she says.

He nods, swallows hard, and straightens his shoulders to make himself look every inch the commander that he is. He doesn’t say  _come back safe_ , because they both know the odds of that. Instead he says, “Fight well, Inquisitor.”

Her smile is a tremulous thing as she nods back before turning and walking through the eluvian. He prays for another miracle.


End file.
